Childhood
by Les Mots de Meaux
Summary: Javert ponders on childhood and is faced with a choice that will force him to contemplate his own. Many apologies for the late update.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This will end up being a chaptered fanfiction.

Disclaimer: I do not and never will own Les Miserables or any of its characters in any of their forms.

It had been a rather busy day.

For whatever reason, criminals and crooks of all kinds had decided that November 6th was a good day to disrupt the natural order of Paris. Several arrests had been made, and several lawbreakers had escaped the silver handcuffs of an officer.

In other words, it had been quite an eventful day without a moment of rest or silence in the station. The work had never stopped, policemen rushing out and felons being dragged in.

Inspector Javert glanced up from his desk as yet another soon-to-be prisoner was brought into the station. He sighed, dipping his pen into the little inkstand once more. Writing up reports was definitely not one of his preferred duties in the course of police work, but every one of the officers had to do some desk work in his time. Of course, some of officers of weaker mind and body probably enjoyed it. It, after all, saved them from the constant risk of injury or even death.

Javert was certainly not of the weaker brand of officer.

He quite liked the challenges and travails that being an officer brought. He reveled in the idea that every moment he was on patrol, he was in unceasing, perpetual danger. It brought him, even in its overwhelming sense of hazard, a sort of calmness. In a sense, it was one of the few constants in his life.

Being a patrolling officer also prevented him from thinking too much. When on patrol, there were very, very few things on his mind. First, how to go about catching and effectively arresting the perpetrator of the crime. Second, how to do so without sustaining life-threatening injuries or getting killed. Third and final, how to prevent any of the idiotic, ill-learned, younger officers from getting fatally injured or killed, which is surprisingly much, much harder than it may seem.

These invariable concerns kept him on his toes and his mind set on the case at hand. These nagging worries prevented his thoughts from drifting to the less pleasant facets of his life.

Such as his ever-dwindling salary.

Javert was never one to fret about money. However, there comes a point when even being as frugal as can be is not enough. He was not an avid spender; he never bought unnecessary frivolities. Still, nevertheless, the salary of a policeman will only get one so far.

His flat was not in the best area, per say, of town. It had not seemed to cost much when he first started paying the monthly rent, at least in proportion to his salary. He had also been younger, for he had moved to Paris in 1824, almost seven years ago. The move had been due to supposedly better prospects working for the Prefect of Police at the Palais de Justice. Indeed, the possibilities had been great. He was offered a good job as an officer, and he did indeed love the excitement and adrenaline that had run through his veins as he stalked throughout the streets at night. Then, he was promoted to Inspector. He quite enjoyed this new set of duties, for now he had greater control of the dark streets and the even darker inhabitants of said cobblestone-paved roads.

However, being Inspector also meant that he had to do even more paperwork than he had had to do as an officer.

That was not a benefit of the job, at least in Javert's opinion. Paperwork meant sitting at a desk for hours on end, his only company being the endless stack of forms, a pen, and a solitary inkstand. Deskwork meant trading in the exhilarating night rounds and adrenaline-filled daytime patrols for a too-small wooden desk and hard maple chair.

To Inspector Javert, that somehow did not seem like much of a fair trade.

For this very reason alone, he had resisted the possibility of becoming a secretary to the Prefect of Police. As much as working directly under the orders of such a prestigious and honored man, he did not anticipate the large amounts of paperwork he would have to complete. He would much rather go home with a twisted wrist or a sprained ankle than ink stains all over his fingers.

He was not some weakling. He would not rejoice in the face of despair, of course, but at least he would die at the climax of the great battle between the law and the unlawful rather than at the hands of boredom.

He sighed again, setting his pen down. He cast his gaze around the office, examining the faces of the criminals being brought in for interrogation, and almost certainly later, imprisonment.

Inspector Javert had discovered at a certain point in his career as a policeman that there was a way to organize criminals into distinct classes.

There were, firstly, the hardened repeat offenders. They almost had a surly attitude about them, even as they were faced with a heavy sentence or an intense interrogation. This special type of criminal was of the belief that one more day, one more year, or ten more years in prison made little difference. They knew that they broke the law, yet they did nothing to attempt to stop their own selfish impulses.

Javert despised this brand of criminal more than he despised any other.

The second type was weak. They cried upon the single click of a locking door or the single breath of their interrogator. They were feeble, delicate of nature, of mind, and usually of body. This type was typically the first-time offenders. They barely ever tried to defend themselves, usually cracking after no more than five minutes of interrogation.

He could not bring himself to hate this type of criminal, but yet he could not pity them either. A criminal, no matter how vulnerable or powerless, was still a criminal.

The third type was easiest to define upon first glance at their physicality, yet hardest to define at first glance at their mentality. This third type was simply…the children. They were tiny of body, their bones not yet fully grown and sometimes, their adult teeth not all yet grown in. Their clothes were often far too large for them, having usually been lifted off an older man or woman.

This did not faze, nor surprise, Javert. He was used to seeing youngsters roam the streets of Paris.

However, their mentality, in a sense, frightened him to the very core of his being.

They could sometimes care less that they were captured, cornered, forced to be older than they really were. They loved being treated like the adults they always seemed to try to be.

But sometimes, they took on a totally different, totally opposite form of being. They were frightened, weak, depressed. They cried, with downcast eyes.

In a sense, children were the sum of the other two classes of criminals.

This puzzled Javert at first, and then he realized the truth. For after all, he had seen it in himself.

Children are the root of our own selves.

Our selves as children paint our selves as adults.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I would like to credit frustratedstudent for somehow reading my mind! You have quite stumbled upon one of my plot points for this fanfiction…

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters mentioned in any of their forms/incarnations.

In the end of it all, it was a scruffy little boy that catalyzed all of the events that occurred within this day of Inspector Javert's existence inside the station.

His shift was finally, thankfully almost over. The night was just beginning to creep into the last, straggling remnants of day. The moon was rising to overtake the sun. The sky, once bright with blue-white hope, was disappearing, dissolving, into the dark, somber atmosphere of night.

His shift was finally, thankfully almost over. That meant that he could return home, to the blissful warmth of his fire and the soft fabric of his slippers.

Actually, he did not have a fireplace, nor did he own a pair of slippers, much less plush ones. Javert was not immune to the human wishes for more than what one already has. Not even he could escape the jealousy and desires that consumed every one of the people of the Earth, even those with seemingly everything.

In reality, he had a single bed with two blankets, a rather badly upholstered armchair, a desk and chair, and a chest of drawers. This was all contained in a single room within a rambling, aging building of slightly-cracked brickwork. The Inspector also had use of a small, rusty kitchen and an even smaller washroom.

All in all, he was better off than a lot of the inhabitants of Paris. At least he had a flat. At least he had a bed, and a better blanket than his own greatcoat. In fact, he was luckier than a lot of people, for his flat had a small window that faced directly out to the horizon. The sunlight streaming in was his only wake-up call, and the amber sunset was his only curfew.

Yes, he was luckier than a lot of people.

A vast number of people within the Paris city limits woke up to the sound of screams, the wailing cries that pierce through the morning light. They washed their faces in the dirty water (if they washed their faces at all). They broke their bread in front of the bustling marketplace. Often times, the bread was not lawfully acquired by exchange of coins or promises to reciprocate a barter. Instead, the bread was stolen by force or by stealth.

Javert washed his face each morning in relatively clean water, at least as clean as anyone but the mayor could expect in Paris.

Cleanliness in hygiene bred cleanliness in records. He, unlike many, upheld the law with a more-than-fierce determination.

Javert broke his bread to the ever-escalating sunrise. His was bought with his always-dwindling police salary.

He, unlike many, would never turn to the black crime of thievery.

Yes, he was luckier than a lot of people.

He went to bed to the tune of silence, to the sight of a golden yellow sunset. He performed his routine, night time practices in front of a slightly-chipped mirror. It was not broken, so seven years were not to be his curse. In any case, he had little patience for superstition or the frivolous beliefs of bourgeoisies.

Yes, oh yes, he was luckier than a lot of people.

Many people of Paris went to bed to the noisy bangs and clashes of a closing market, the din closing in around their already damaged ears. At night, cries and screams breaking through the darkness welcomed them once more and became their lullaby. They performed semblances of habits in preparation for bed in front of the absence of a looking-glass. In desperation, some of the vainer type who desired narcissic confirmations of their supposed beauty glanced into the rippling glass of the river Seine. This mirror was broken every few seconds by tiny waves. These people, who never could seem to believe in the law, would surely believe in the deadly curses brought on by the breaking of pieces of glass mirrors. Ironic, really.

Inspector Javert could at least count himself amongst the small percentage of the lucky people in Paris, at the very least in this respect.

The doors slammed open, interrupting his lonely musing. Two patrolling officers (oh, how very lucky they were!) stormed in, dragging a very small body between them. The tiny body opened its piercing blue eyes and stared directly into Javert's smoky grey own. Almost reflexively, he had to fight the urge to draw back and go back to his paperwork, defeated by the eyes of a boy.

The boy gazed up to his captors' faces, a sort of smile breaking out upon his dirty, young face. "If ya let m'down, I'll n'v'r tell no one!" he bargained with the officers, trying at once to look both childishly innocent and fiercely threatening. He did not succeed with either expression, instead looking decidedly as though he had just lost a game of cards.

Inspector Javert sighed, this bodily sound becoming quite a definition of his character. He leaned back in his chair, determinedly avoiding returning to the awaiting, ever-growing stack of papers in front of him. He studied the small boy wriggling in the officers' arms with the stare of a falcon swooping down for prey.

"I swear t'it, sirs! I got me some pals ou'there. We migh' not be like you, all uppity an' wit' guns an' bullets…Bu' we've got us some smarts an' some knives alright," he threatened, still looking depressed and hopeless.

The officer to his left, who Javert recognized as Laplaie, threw his head back in a mighty laugh. "Yes, yes, of course. Because there are _so many of you_," he teased. Javert grimaced at Laplaie's stupidity. Did he not see the thousands of dirty faces, starved from hunger, lining the streets? The Prefect should look more carefully into what type of man he hires…

Instantly, the boy grinned. "Bu' of _course_, sir. We're _ev'rywhere…_", he whispered. He turned around, quick as a flash, and connected his fist with Laplaie's stomach. Laplaie, turning out to be a lot less stable than he looked, fell down to the ground. The sound of the impact silenced all other noise within the station.

Nothing can be said but that at that moment, everything was clear: criminals cannot merely be sorted by examination of their size. One must delve deeper.

And at that moment, the station became naught but chaos.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone (Nimue I Am, frustratedstudent, AmZ) who has reviewed! Also – updates will probably be a little less frequent in the future, just to let you, my readers, know.

A/N 2: This takes place before the Gorbeau Tenement fiasco, just to clear that up. I realized after typing this up that the time might be a little confusing. This does follow canon time.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables nor any of the characters from Les Miserables mentioned in any of their forms.

Chaos is one of those states of being that defies everything. The world lets loose, and the people lose all semblances of order and moderation.

Javert let a smile break out across his features. For once, his desk job might just be as exciting as a night time patrol. Indeed, the station resembled the dark streets of Paris at night. People of all statures ran about, trying to restrain each other and trying to restrain the perpetrator of the crime. The little boy himself was still being held by his other arresting officer, but that state might not hold for long. He was getting a look in his eyes, the very same look he had had before he punched Laplaie.

Javert gathered his papers, unfinished and finished alike, and dropped them into one of his desk drawers. He stood, leaving his coat where it was over the back of his chair. Weaving in between all of the hustle and bustle, he made his way over to the boy. The boy noticed his maneuvering immediately, instantly setting himself on guard. His back stiffened; he tilted his head up. He held his arms at his sides, but his fists were clenched tightly in anticipation of an attack.

Javert had not intended such a response, but he did suppose he looked at least slightly menacing. Better menacing than weak, at any rate. This way, he would seem to have the upper hand, which was important when dealing with criminals. Though, it struck him that he had no idea what the boy had done to deserve his arrest. That would certainly be a good place to start in his attempts to regain some sort of order within the station. But first, he ought to learn the boy's name. Perhaps he had a criminal record.

Javert did not bend down to be at eye level with the boy. Instead, he stayed where he was, back straight and arms crossed tightly across his chest.

"Well, you have caused quite a commotion, haven't you?" he asked, tone jovial and carefree. Threatening could come later if needed.

"I'm no' talkin' to ya," the boy retorted. "You're a _nark_." If the boy had been older and more mature, he might have looked to be holding his ground. However, since he was still quite young and his face yet unwrinkled, he looked simply juvenile.

"Perhaps," Javert replied, without commiting to a specific response. The boy was just trying to mess with him anyway. "But tell me – what is your name?"

"Why should I?" he said. "An' 'perhaps' isn't no proper kind o' answer!"

"It works fine for whom I am talking to, at least," Javert said, meaning every word and implied insult. Better to break him down a bit and lower him off of his high pedestal. "But, what is your name? Surely you have one!"

"I do, bu' why should I tell ya? You'll jus' write me down as some thief…"

"Is that what you are, then, a thief?" Javert asked. "I really must know your name."

"_Perhaps_," the boy sneered. Javert sighed. This was getting absolutely nowhere.

Suddenly the boy's face broke out into a worried sort of grimace. "Ya aren't gonna be lockin' me all up, are ya?" he questioned, voice rising just a little. Javert straightened up. Finally, the boy was going to reveal _something._

"I might not, if you tell me your name and what you have done to get arrested," Javert said, almost bargaining. Anything to get the boy to speak truthfully.

"Well…" the boy began, slightly nervously. He twisted his hands in each other.

"Go on, please," Javert prompted, excusing the small wait in exchange for hopefully good, verifiable information.

"M'name's Gavroche," the boy, now named, said.

"Is that all? No surname?" Javert asked.

"I used to have one."

"How is that possible, Gavroche?" Javert questioned, slightly puzzled.

"Jus' the way I said i' to ya. Don't have one no more. My father's alive, bu' he doesn't wan' me. Nor my brothers," Gavroche said, straight and as honest as possible.

"Then, please tell me what your surname used to be," Javert said. The mist was clearing, but still, the boy was vexing.

"Thénardier."

Well, that sure changed things. Inspector Javert knew the name, and he knew the family as well. The father was an innkeeper in Montfermeil. He and his wife had had several children, but Javert could not remember the younglings well. He mostly remembered them for being involved with the case of the prisoner and later convict Jean Valjean. The Thénardiers had been very well versed in treachery and deceit.

"Thank you, Gavroche Thénardier," Javert said. "Where do you live?" He knew that the answer was unlikely to be a street address, but one could always hope. In any case, the more questions he asked, the closer he would probably get to the root of the problem: why Gavroche had been arrested and brought by such force to the station.

"Streets, 'course," Gavroche replied, totally unashamed. "My father an' all the others live in some 'partment," he went on, answering Javert's next unasked question.

"Do you know where that is, Gavroche?" Javert asked. He knew he really ought to be writing all of this down, but he did not dare. The boy might get frightened and bolt.

"Yeah."

"Well, are you going to tell me?"

"Will ya 'rrest them?"

"It is possible, depending on the circumstances." If Gavroche was going to be truthful, Javert figured he could allow some truths of his own. Better not to lead the boy on only to disappoint him later.

"Okay."

Javert was surprised at Gavroche's positive response. Sure, Thénardier was neither a caring nor an honest man, and Gavroche had mentioned that he had thrown him out. However, to willingly deliver one's family member to the uncaring hands of justice…That took a certain amount of bravery, something Javert had not expected in Gavroche. However, he had not exactly expected it in himself either, when the time had come and he was faced with a choice much like Gavroche's.

"Monsieur?" Gavroche asked, jolting Javert back to the present. He nodded, shivering a little.

"Go on, Gavroche," he murmured.

"They all live a' Gorbeau."

"I know the place," Javert said. "Oh, how I know the place."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I won't be able to update most of next week. Don't worry; I haven't given up on my story! I just won't be able to update for a (short) while.

A/N 2: I'm also splitting from canon at this point. Just to let you know before the questions arise! Also, any guesses, etc. that you have as to the plot, please PM me rather than post them in reviews. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters from Les Miserables presented in this fanfiction in any of their forms.

"Ya do?" Gavroche asked. "Didn't think all ya narks would know too much 'bout Gorbeau…"

"Yes, well, we actually know it quite well. There is quite a history surrounding the Gorbeau tenement," Javert said. He leaned against the front of his desk, arms crossed across his chest. It was quite a wonder that none of the other policemen had yet noticed the exchange between the boy and the Inspector. However, most of them were either tending to Laplaie or desperately trying to regain order in the chaos that the station had become.

"'istory?" Gavroche asked, tilting his head. "Don't know much 'bout it myself, bu' I know the people there well!"

"As I am sure you do," Javert agreed. He realized it was becoming rather difficult to hear Gavroche's mumbled replies above the noisy din in the station; they really ought to move away from the disorder and confusion. In addition to being able to hear Gavroche properly, they would also be away from eavesdropping officers anxious to grab every bit of gossip that they could. The less that got around, the better. That way, Javert could handle the case himself.

He did not wish to admit to himself, and he certainly would never admit it to anyone else, but the boy sort of reminded him of himself. Well, at least he reminded him of his ten-year-old self. Gavroche Thénardier had that same strange brand of bravery, the kind of courage that enabled a victim to finally bring about vengeance.

"Come with me," Javert stated, turning and walking to a door just off the right side of his desk. He did not check to see if Gavroche was following, for he had an inkling that he would. If anything, it would bring him away from the craziness of the main room of the station.

It was silent inside the little office. There was a desk, with a chair on each side. A coat rack stood next to the door; no coats hung upon it at the moment. These were the sparse decorations that embellished the room.

"You can sit there if you like," Javert said, gesturing to one of the chairs. He sat down opposite Gavroche in the other chair. He folded his arms on the table, looking intently at Gavroche. "Could you tell me anything about the residents of the Gorbeau tenement?"

"Wut do ya wanna know?" Gavroche asked, leaning back in his chair.

"Well, in particular, I would much like to know if there have been any criminal activities there, to the best of your knowledge." Javert felt like this was an interrogation, he the interrogator and Gavroche the felon. After all, the boy had committed some sort of crime to deserve his arrest. If they took a little longer getting around to that, then so be it. Any information Javert gained from this discussion regarding the Gorbeau tenement would be worth his while, he was sure of it.

"Thénardier and 'is wife, my 'rents, suppose…," Gavroche trailed off.

"Yes?" Javert prompted. "Please, do go on."

"They're par' of this ring, sort of. It's called Patron-Minette," Gavroche stated. Javert nodded. He knew Patron-Minette like he knew the Gorbeau tenement: both had a history of crime and murder.

"There're a few more in i' too," Gavroche went on, "There's…uh…Babet. He's the skeleton." Javert inclined his head. He knew Patron-Minette's many incarnations, but it would be better to hear the boy out. Perhaps Gavroche had a different perspective, being practically one of the Patron-Minette himself.

"Then there's Gueulemer, an' 'e's the big one. An' he doesn't have much brains." Gavroche paused, collecting his thoughts. "No one sees Claquesous 'bout. 'e's kinda a shadow, I guess."

Javert nodded. The descriptions fit his own knowledge to the letter. "Anyone else?" he prompted.

"Yeah," Gavroche replied. "There's Montparnasse. We're kinda friends, me an' Montparnasse." He crossed his arms in front of himself with a little smile. "'e looks ou' for me, I look ou' for 'im."

"Really?" Javert asked. He was less familiar with Montparnasse than with the other members of Patron-Minette, but he knew his type well. Montparnasse was a dandy of sorts. He was not rich, and he did not have an inheritance or wealthy parents, to the best of Javert's knowledge. He stole and bargained to rise up in the world. His clothes were fine, but starting to show signs of wear and age. Such was the fate of one who tried to earn an income upon crime. One cannot survive long on purely theft. The turn of the world, the change of the inhabitants of Paris, the transformation of the decades often affects the criminals even more so than the honest, law-abiding men. The commitment of one crime often leaves a hunger for more, and so, eventually, the amount of people available to murder and steal from dwindles.

"Yeah…" Gavroche trailed off, twisting his fingers in themselves. "Are ya gonna 'rrest them all?"

"Maybe not all of them, Gavroche," Javert said, "But probably, at the very least, Patron-Minette's main players. One must, after all, remove the guards to get at the prize. The prize being – "

"My father," Gavroche finished, completing Javert's sentence. "Bu'…wut 'bout 'Ponine an' 'Zelma?"

"Who might they be?" Javert asked. He had not heard of these inhabitants of the Gorbeau tenement previously.

"My sisters. Éponine an' Azelma. They still live wit' father an' mother a' Gorbeau." Gavroche nodded, almost to himself. "'Zelma's younger, an' she's no' too smart 'bout 'erself; she lets 'erself get pushed 'round a bunch. Then, there's 'Ponine…she's older. She's smarter than 'Zelma, bu' that's no' sayin' bunches. She's kinda bein' all temperamental lately. An' Montparnasse…I reckon 'e likes 'er."

"Interesting…" Javert murmured. There were many good things about being a gamin. You could see and hear things you were not meant to, but no one would care. Gamins were quite skilled in the art of blending into the background.

Javert opened his mouth to ask another question, but an interruption occurred in the form of an intruder to the room.

He was young, thin and tall. His dark brown hair was hidden under a hat of velvet. His clothes were well-made. Javert instantly categorized him as a dandy under some hard luck. There was a rather alarming number of them these days.

Gavroche made no moves, but Javert stood.

"What do you want?" he growled at the young man.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thank you, again, to all of my reviewers and readers! Some of you had guesses as to the identity of the intruder in Chapter 4…I hope you are quite surprised! Remember, updates will become less and less frequent over the next week or so, but I have not deserted this fanfiction!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters presented in this fanfiction in any way, shape, or form.

"Well, um, sir," the dandy began.

"Hey, I know ya!" Gavroche crowed. He stood from his chair, a broad grin across his dirty face. "Ya live jus' down the 'all, don't ya?"

"Uh, yes, I do," the young man replied. He removed his hat to scratch at his head. "I was told that I would find an inspector here." He turned to Javert, his hat still held in his pale hands. "Would that be you, sir?"

"Yes. Speak of the matter," Javert replied. He, too, stood to face the young man. "What is your name?"

"Marius Pontmercy, sir," the now-identified dandy said. "It is a very secret matter I speak of."

"Then speak, if you will. I shall not tell a soul," Javert said with a sigh. Oh, how these dandies vexed him, with their better-than-thou attitudes and smug faces. At least this one had not added a particle to his name; that species of dandy bothered him the most. Like criminals, dandies could be sorted into neatly-organized categories.

There were the high-and-mighty kind, with noses in the air and more money than truly necessary. They usually had perfect, impeccable clothing and faultless skin. This was the type with the particle attached to their name. They behaved as if they had a God-given right to treat anyone out of their class as worse than scum.

Then, there was the slightly-less-smug brand of dandy. They tended to drop the particle from their name, so that Monsieur _de _Gautier became Monsieur Gautier in the newest fashion. Like with their names, this kind of dandy loved to keep up on the most modern fashions. They seemed to have a never-dwindling salary, yet did not work a day in their life. Because of this, it was seemingly effortless for them to keep up on the latest and greatest fashions.

The last class was of that peculiar stage between dandy and commoner. They had fine clothes, or at least once did. They had to work to earn a living. They typically lived in the little flats scattered about Paris. Sometimes, this group could, if young enough, be classified with the students.

The young man, Marius Pontmercy, seemed to be of this last kind of dandy. He even had that distinct air of student about him. His hands were at his sides; he held his hat in one of them. His overcoat was starting to bear signs of oldness, the sleeves just starting to fray slightly. His trousers were a bit too short, and his shoes had scuffs on the heels. He wore no gloves, at least at the moment.

"It's, uh, extremely urgent," Marius went on.

"Then, speak fast," Javert said. Yes, definetly a student. Marius had few social graces and an even smaller sense of propriety.

"There's this man, see. I don't know his name or anything, but I know what he looks like. He's got bright white hair, but he doesn't seem too terribly old. And he has a daughter." Marius blushed. Javert made no movement, waiting for the young man to get on with his story. "I live right next door to this other flat. I was sitting in my flat when I heard voices coming from the other one. I heard this…plot, you see. Apparently, there is a man by the name of Jondrette. He seems to be the mastermind behind all of this. He is going to have assistance, by some prowlers and the like. I think one of them was called Panchaud. Anyway, Jondrette's daughters (he has two of them) will be on the lookout for interrupters. What concerns me the most is that there is absolutely no way that I can warn the man they're after; I don't know his name or anything!"

"Anything else?" Javert asked.

"Oh, uh, yes. It's all going to be at six tonight. At the Gorbeau tenement, number 50-52; it's on the boulevard de l'Hôpital."

"Really?" Javert turned slightly to Gavroche. The boy nodded, in response to Javert's unasked question. The two were most definetly one and the same. So, therefore, the Thénardiers equaled the Jondrettes! "So, that would mean it's the room at the end of the hall, then?"

"Yes," Marius replied. "Have you been there before?"

"Once or twice. But I know more than enough about it." Javert nodded, sparing a glance down to Gavroche. The boy grinned up at him with a wink. Oh, Javert could remember the delight of a secret when he was as young as Gavroche. It made you feel important, like you and only you could solve the mystery. "How much do you know of Patron-Minette? It sounds like they might be involved."

"I heard that name mentioned!" Marius exclaimed.

"Very good, then. That makes things infinitely easier," Javert murmured. He would be able to recognize them on the spot, now, especially with Gavroche's updated descriptions. "And I think I might know Jondrette's true identity."

"He's not really Jondrette?" Marius asked in surprise.

"I do not think so."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This will most probably be my last addition to this fanfiction before a week-long hiatus. Do not worry – I am definetly not leaving this one or anything. I will just be unable to update for all of next week (I will probably get back to updating next Monday or so).

A/N: Once again, thank you to all of my readers and reviewers!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables nor any of the characters in any way, shape, or form. Only the plot is mine.

"And how would you figure that?" Marius inquired. He leaned slightly against the wall, examining his hat with far more detail than was truly necessary.

"Well, one could say that a little bird told me," Javert murmured. "It is not of your concern. In any case, we need to decide how to proceed with this." He reached down as if to put his hands in his coat pockets, but then he remembered that his coat was still in the main room of the station. "Be right back in a moment," he stated, walking out the door of the little office and slamming the heavy door behind him.

When he had left, a very awkward silence set upon the office. Marius set his hat on the desk, and then turned to Gavroche. "I swear that I have seen you before, but where?" he questioned.

"Wouldn't know, I wouldn't know…" Gavroche mumbled. He wondered if Javert would acquiesce to his talking with Marius, but he supposed it did not really matter. After all, he was probably going to be arrested anyway, once all of this was over. Unless he could get away and escape. But that was not very likely under the keen, watchful eyes of Inspector Javert. He was known fairly well throughout the world of the streets of Paris. Escape, at the moment at least, was not a viable option.

"Why are you here, anyway?" Marius asked, staring at Gavroche. "I think I've seen you out on the streets sometime or another…"

"I'm 'ere 'cause I am!" Gavroche retorted. "An' I don't want to talk 'bout it."

"Alright, then," Marius said, noticeably backing off. Of course, right at that moment, Inspector Javert reentered the little office, his greatcoat slung across one arm and his black hat in his hand.

"Now, to business," Javert began. He set his coat over his chair's back. He made to lay his hat on the table, but he was met with the sight of Marius's hat. He stared pointedly at it, until Marius figured everything out and removed his hat from the table. Javert nodded, almost in thought, and then put his hat on the table with a sigh.

"I need to know something, first and foremost," Javert said, turning to look at Marius. "Will you be frightened of these men?"

"I mean…No, no, I don't think so," Marius replied, a tinge of insolence to his tone. Javert rolled his eyes. These student-dandies, thinking they owned the world, and if someone were to deny their perfect manliness or courage…

"That will be good enough, then," Javert said. "Do you have a key, one that you use to let yourself in at night after the landlady has gone to bed?"

"Uh, yes, yes I do," Marius replied. "Why do you ask me?" His voice was still gruff, as if he was still offended by Javert's remark about his courage and tenacity.

"Do you have it with you?" Javert asked, as way of response. It was really an awful roundabout way to go about things…

"Yes, I do."

"Give it to me, if you will," Javert said. He stretched out his hand for it, nodding when Marius dug the little silver key out of his pocket and dropped it in his hand. "Thank you. This will help a lot, and will certainly save a few doors from needing repairs." In addition, keys were a lot less suspicious and noisy than picking locks and breaking down doors.

"How many men will you bring with you?" Marius asked.

"Well, let us see. There will be seven of them, correct?" Inspector Javert inquired.

"Yes, yes, there will be seven. Unless they bring more," Marius replied. He moved to sit in Javert's vacant chair, but was stopped by a wave of the Inspector's hand. He moved back, then, to lean against the wall, a dejected look upon his face.

"Then we shall assume seven. I shall bring fourteen, and plus me that makes fifteen. That should be a suitable, strong number," Javert said. "Is there anything else you should like to add?"

"Oh, but Inspector! What of the white-haired man, their intended victim, and his daughter!" Marius exclaimed. A sob almost began to creep into his voice, but he urgently pushed it back down. "What of them?"

"I shall do my utmost. Do not fret, Pontmercy. It will all be settled, if you do your part," Javert said with a sigh. Love, that force that always got in the way…was striking again, this time upon Marius Pontmercy. Hopefully it would not affect the outcome of the Gorbeau tenement arrest.

"What is my part to be, then?" Marius asked.

Javert turned and reached out to dig into his greatcoat pockets. From their depths he revealed two small pistols made of steel. These he handed to Marius. "Take these, if you will. Both pistols are loaded, each with two bullets. You need to go home and act as if you have gone out. Lock your door, do what you must. They have to believe that you have left. This is very important. Do you understand so far?"

"Yes, I do, Inspector. Then what must I do?" Marius asked. He took the pistols from Javert's hands, and then slid them into a side pocket of his coat.

"No, no! Put them in your pants pockets. They attract far too much attention otherwise!" Javert exclaimed. After Marius did as he asked, he continued.

"Then, Pontmercy, you must look through the little hole in the wall that you described to me earlier. People will come into the Jondrette flat; let them go on a little. They must believe that they are safe, that we know nothing of their plot. When the situation has gone on for some time, and you figure that it is time enough to stop it, fire one of these pistols. Just one shot to the air, to the ceiling, wherever you see fit. But do not fire it too soon; we must not give them time to escape before my men and I arrive. The rest you shall leave to me. Remember, not too soon!" Javert said.

"Alright, I think I have it. Let the matter go on, then fire a pistol," Marius repeated. "And not too soon."

"Correct. Now, what is the time?" He glanced at a little clock that hung on one of the walls. "Half-past two, it seems. You said six, right?"

"Yes, six o'clock in the evening. Tonight," Marius confirmed.

"Good, then, for I have just enough time," Inspector Javert said with a nod. "Do not forget anything at all. One pistol shot."

"Alright, I have it all," Marius said. He turned, putting his hat back on his head, and made to leave.

"By the way, Pontmercy, if you need me: just ask for Inspector Javert!" Javert said in way of good-bye. Marius nodded, then left the room.

Gavroche looked up at Javert. "So, are ya gonna…."

"Yes. Tonight, we are storming the Gorbeau tenement. And you are coming with me."


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: I am back from my little hiatus! Updates, unfortunately, will probably become rather sporadic for a time. However, I will never leave this fanfiction or anything like that, never fear! And I just procured a very nice edition of L'Homme Qui Rit, just so you know; it's amazing. There may be references to it in later chapters, it is just that good. I may post a little summary up on my profile about it if I do end up including it.

Author's Note 2: I thank you kindly for all of the reviews you have given me. I also thank those who read this fanfiction (even if you do not review it)!

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters mentioned in this fanfiction. The only thing that is mine is the arrangement of words in this fanfiction.

"Me?" Gavroche asked, a surprised look on his face. "I'm no copper or somethin' like tha'."

"I know," Inspector Javert said. "That is part of the reason for why you must come with me. Now, I have a plan, and you must listen very closely." He glanced at the clock again, then turned back to Gavroche. "We do not have much time, so I shall speak quickly. You must remember what I say. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah, 'course I do," Gavroche said. He looked attentively to Javert. "Bu', will ya still be 'rrestin' me?"

"My mind is not yet made up. However, your compliance in tonight's events at the Gorbeau tenement will certainly count in your favor." Javert let out a sigh. Yes, criminals could be sorted into neat little categories. However, most had one thing, one goal in common: do not get arrested. Even the children knew the fear of a cold cell. Even the children knew the hard work one endured in prison. Regardless of where the prison was, be it Toulon or someplace else, it was still a prison. Even the children knew that.

"Alrigh', ya know I'm comin' with ya," Gavroche stated. "What's the plan?" He moved to sit back down in the chair, his eyes bright and his face in a wide smile. "I'm all ready, 'Spector."

Javert nodded, half to himself and half to Gavroche. "I will alert the officers that the criminals in the Gorbeau tenement are extremely prone to running, so that they shall be prepared. We will wait with the officers outside the building," he said, running his hand around the brim of his hat, as if to straighten its curve into a proper line. "With a bit of luck, we'll be able to snag their lookouts; I am sure they will have at least one, knowing them and their ways. Then, we shall wait for the boy Marius Pontmercy to shoot the pistol. Hopefully, he will remember my instructions and follow through with them. Unfortunately, we have to place our trust in him. I hope that his love for the victim's daughter will not interrupt his duties." Javert sighed. "At least he has a purpose for following my orders; if the victim dies, I doubt he will have any chance at all at the daughter."

Gavroche grinned. "Love, love, love," he said in a sing-song voice. Seeing Javert's impatient look, he straightened back up and his face formed into a serious expression. "Wha' next, then?"

"Well," Javert continued. "We shall storm the room as soon as the shot rings out. The officers will surround the criminals. You will make yourself invisible until needed. Understand?"

"Yeah, yeah," Gavroche said. "Got i'."

"Good. I will rescue the victim from any situation he is in, should the need arise. I will then initiate the arrest, and if need be, identify the criminals. Then, case closed. We will take the criminals to prison."

"What will 'appen t'me, then?" Gavroche asked. "Seein' as I'm 'elping ya an' all."

"We will discuss that," Javert said, "after the arrest. And that is only if everything goes exactly as planned. If you run, or if you try to inform the criminals – "

" – No need for that," Gavroche interrupted. "I'm followin' ya. My best prospects are with ya, anyways. Father turned me out, an' I doubt mother wants me back either."

"Well, then, if that is all settled," Javert said, "We can go, now. I have to get something."

"Can I come?" Gavroche asked, already leaping up from his chair. "I'll be good!" His face turned expectant, tilted up to look at Javert. The Inspector let out an exasperated sigh, and then turned to put on his coat. He straightened the lapels and buttoned all the buttons, head still slanted down. He then placed his hat upon his head, centering it with practiced ease.

"If I say no, you will just follow me anyway, won't you?" Javert asked. He felt around in one of his greatcoat pockets for the key to the Gorbeau house that Marius had given him. Upon finding it, he nodded, then straightened his coat back out. He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, a serious, firm expression upon his face.

"Of course, I will!" Gavroche exclaimed. "I'm no thief for nothin'."

"So you are here for theft, then," Javert said nonchalantly. He turned to the door, then back to Gavroche, regarding him with narrowed eyes.

"What else?" Gavroche asked sarcastically, crossing his arms across his thin chest. "I'm no murderer or nothin'."

"Some have started as young as you," Javert remarked. He cast his mind back to earlier years, years he had no inclination to remember. Yet, these times, though few in number, always reminded him of that dark, cold night. The night…

"Well, I don't wanna go killin' nobody," Gavroche stated, interrupting Javert's thoughts. He was glad of that, at least.

"Then, do not," Javert said. "And come. We must hurry, for six o'clock is approaching fast." With that, he walked out the door, Gavroche trailing happily behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you to all of my reviewers and readers! I take every review to heart and each one helps me write better and better, no lie.

A/N 2: Updates will probably be once a week in the future, but occasionally I will be able to upload more than one chapter in that span. I also have a question, but I will put that at the bottom of this chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of its characters, nor am I Victor Hugo. All I own is several copies of Les Miserables of various editions, and the arrangement of the words upon this page.

"So, where are we goin', 'Spector?" Gavroche asked, finally catching up to Inspector Javert's long strides.

"We must do a bit of scouting before we can storm the Gorbeau house," Javert murmured down to him. He pushed past a group of street children huddled around a little stove in the road. Some people, usually those of the church, would call these children innocent, even though terrors beyond their imagination had befallen them. Conversely, Javert could not bring himself to agree with this statement of opinion. They had seen too much, lived through too much, to remain innocent to the horrors of the uncaring world. At least a fire, however feeble, was available to these misfortunate remains of crimes, evidence and victims that the police force never recorded.

"Like the Bastille?" Gavroche asked, a spring in his step. He did not look at the wretched children as he brushed by them after Javert. It was not ignorance, but neither was it an act of arrogance.

"I suppose," Javert said, agreeing. "I know the way, so please, follow close behind me." He hurried away further, Gavroche jogging to keep up. Finally, they fell in step with each other again, Gavroche wheezing from exhaust.

"Yer a fast one," Gavroche mumbled.

"I thought you would be faster than me, seeing as you have lived on the streets," Javert retorted, crossing the street quickly.

"Ya seem like ya know the streets," Gavroche said, tilting his head up to meet Javert's eyes. "Almos' better than me, ya do."

"It comes, Gavroche, with being a police inspector. One of the prerequisites is to know Paris and all of her roads and alleys. Myself, I took it a bit farther, and as such, know every bit of the city." Javert crossed his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, but…seems like somethin' more than that, if ya don't mind," Gavroche said. He was now skipping beside Javert, his face alight with a smile.

"Well, it is not. We really must hurry," Javert persisted. "Please do keep up!"

Of course, at that moment, the skies had the providence to open up and drop the tears of angels upon the people of Paris. The rain beat hard against the wooden and tin roofs, and aristocrats, bourgeois, and gamins alike all ran for cover. Gavroche and Inspector Javert both dashed under the eave of a roof, to escape the rain for at least a moment. The tintinnabulation of the wet droplets all around them, on the ground and against the roof, rose up to their ears and made it nearly impossible for them to hear each other.

"We have to get going," Javert nearly shouted, trying to make himself heard to Gavroche above the rising clatter of raindrops. "Even through the rain. We can wait a moment, but no more."

"I've got no coat or nothin'," Gavroche protested, huddling under the eave. "An' it's cold too!" He crossed his arms together. "I'll get sick, an' then what?"

"Gavroche, we have to stop the Thénardiers!" Javert said. "Five minutes, but that is all we can waste." He pulled out his watch to check the time. Luckily, it was only three o'clock. They still had time before they had to get back to the station.

Gavroche nodded, and then he pressed himself closer against the wall of the building they were leaned up against. "It's very cold, 'Spector," he muttered under his breath. "I usually go home 'bout now, when i' rains an' all."

"Home? Where is that? I thought the Thénardiers turned you out onto the streets," Javert said, a pensive look upon his face. Best to keep the boy talking, and therefore his mind off the state of the world around him and the effects it could have upon himself and his well-being.

"No' tellin' ya," Gavroche said, sticking his nose up into the air in some fierce imitation of aristocracy. "You're a nark; you'd just turn me ou' of there, too, like my father did t'me."

"If that is what you think, then so be it," Javert said. "I would not remove you from your home's premises, unless of course it was a hazard to you or someone else, you know." He straightened his hat, almost in a nervous gesture. Well, it would have been a nervous gesture had anyone but Javert made it. If Javert was nervous, he would never show it in such a simplistic way.

"Well, I'm still no' tellin' ya!" Gavroche said.

"The five minutes is almost up, Gavroche," Javert lied. Really, only about two minutes had past. However, they truly had to get to the Gorbeau tenement quickly. The faster they got there, the faster they could have a look around, and the faster they could return back to the station to brief the officers.

"Well, then I guess we've gotta go," Gavroche murmured dejectedly. "Bu' I'm only doin' this 'cause it'll mean father can ge' what 'e deserves for once."

"That is a good reason to obey the law, but one should obey it regardless," Javert said as way of reply, glancing out to the street.

"Sometimes, 'Spector, to save the ones ya love, you've gotta break the law," Gavroche said. Javert started and turned to gaze upon Gavroche. Such a proclamation from such a short-lived soul! It was as if Gavroche had known the very thing on Javert's mind, right at that moment. Even he knew that within black and white ideals, there had to be some grey. Without grey, there could be no peace between the dark and light.

The two stepped out together into the stormy afternoon.

A/N 3: I have formed a timeline of sorts for my upcoming series of fanfictions, this one being part of it. Would you think it appropriate for me to upload the timeline to my profile, to make reading my upcoming series easier? I will have a poll on my profile; please vote in it or post a review with your response.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Here we go, another chapter! Thank you, once more, to all of my readers and reviewers! Please vote in the poll on my profile page; the poll is for deciding whether or not I shall put a timeline for my story arc Chance on my profile to aid readers. Also – I have posted a tentative order of fanfictions that I am planning/are in progress for my story arc Chance (this is not the timeline).

A/N: Any French speakers or natives of French, this is a question for you. I recently obtained a French copy of Les Miserables, published in the "Collection de L'Arbre Rond" by the company "Editions Touret". I was wondering if anyone could give me information regarding this edition; it seems to be slightly abridged, and I was wondering if it might be a school copy, etc. Thank you.

Disclaimer: I own naught but the arrangement of words on this page and (now) several copies of Les Miserables.

"This is i', 'Spector!" Gavroche exclaimed over the din of the rain. "I know i'!"

Inspector Javert nodded, for he knew it too. The Gorbeau tenement stood out brightly in his mind. It was often the site of criminal activities, almost seeming to breed unlawfulness and illegalities in its very being. He would certainly need more than one hand upon which to count the cases he had covered at Numbers 50-52, Boulevard de l'Hôpital. One, however, seemed to call out louder than the others in his mind, for its events were seemingly ingrained permanently into his head, into his thoughts.

Jean Valjean was of a curious sort of criminal, he had decided long ago. He defied the natural categories that Javert had so carefully worked out for himself. Why, Javert had discovered him to be masquerading as a benevolent businessman – turned – mayor! Then, he had found him in the spring of 1824, soon after condemning him as the convict Jean Valjean. But that time, Valjean had had a girl with him, a girl not older than seven or eight; she had been reported kidnapped, she had been reported the daughter of the woman Fantine. Javert knew the name, and he had decided to investigate the story. He had visited Montfermeil, on the hunt for answers, only to discover more questions. The innkeepers there, the Thénardiers, had reported that her "grandfather" had come to whisk her away, as grandfathers are often wont to do. This grandfather seemed to hold the strong name of Lambert, a name most decidedly not Valjean.

So it was back to Paris and catching pickpockets for Javert. Until he had heard of a strange sort of man, a beggar by his looks, who gave away francs as if they were wildflowers. This man lived in Saint-Médard and had a little girl with him, a little girl with eight years to her name, a little girl from Montfermeil. This name stood out in his mind like a beacon, and he had investigated further. A beadle – turned – beggar had some information, and Javert masqueraded as him for a day and night, sitting at the same spot he always had, waiting to catch a glance at the mysterious benefactor.

It was Jean Valjean, true and certain.

This created quite a paradox in his mind – Valjean had been reported dead! How could he be roaming Paris's streets, then? His mind clouded with doubts, he had followed the man back to his current residence: the Gorbeau tenement. Getting the landlady to talk was simple, and she did talk a lot. Javert paid for a room, so as to spy further upon the enigmatic, impossible man. Of course, the man caught on quickly, and he had disappeared by the next day. The landlady, though, had warned Javert. The chase was on, the game just beginning. That night, Javert waited for his prey behind the trees, hidden by darkness, with backup. He followed him, through the shadows, never losing sight. Such does the predator follow the prey.

His doubts, however, were still very strong. He would not arrest Valjean at that moment. He thought of possible plans, asking the man for his papers perhaps, but dismissed them. He still did not fully recognize the man as Jean Valjean, as much as his mind told him he ought to. He did not make arrests on the basis of follies.

At that moment, though, the light had streamed across the man's face and erased every hesitation from Javert's mind: it was Jean Valjean.

He went for reinforcements, but that cost him time. However, he soon went to the river, realizing that the convict would want to put distance between himself and the police. A smile on his face, he crossed the bridge, ready to ensnare his prey, close the trap upon his victim.

But he was nowhere to be found. Jean Valjean had effectively disappeared.

The rest, as some might say, was history. And here he was once more, at the Gorbeau tenement, ready to arrest in just a few hours' time.

Hopefully this would be rather more successful than before.

"'Spector?" Gavroche yelled above the rain. "You all fine?" He looked up to contemplate Javert, noticing the haggard face and tilt of the head.

"Yes, I am fine," Javert said. "I was just examining the building, deciding the best maneuver, from the outside. Remember, the officers may not have seen the inside of the Gorbeau tenement yet." He sighed, slipping his hands into his deep pockets. "Especially the younger ones, the ones new to the force."

"Those are the easy ones, ya know," Gavroche said. "To trick, a' least. Don't know much 'bout us yet."

"As I am very much aware," Javert said with a grimace. Too many times had cases turned up incomplete due to the incompetence of young officers with little experience. "Come with me; we are going to look around at the back of the building." He brought his hands back out of his pockets and crossed them across his chest. Javert, beckoning to Gavroche, walked around to the rear side of the tenement.

His eyes bright with careful observance, Javert brought his head up to gaze at the upper windows. He remembered Marius Pontmercy saying that the rooms were on the upper floor, so that is where he decided to look first. In fact, he could see movement in one of the windows, through the ragged curtain. The movement had a masculine look about him, and he was moving things about in his room. Probably the boy Pontmercy, then, preparing for the attack he would aid in. In the next room over, the curtain was even further ragged. Through it, he could discern several figures, arguing, it seemed, amongst themselves. He could make out three females, of varying ages, and one man.

Gavroche suddenly gave a start. "That's them, that's them!" he exclaimed.

"Your family? Your parents and sisters?" Javert inquired, though he already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Gavroche said. They both jolted, Gavroche more so than Javert, when they heard the bang of a door opening. Then, four more figures appeared in the upper room in addition to the Thénardiers.

"Yes, that would be them," Javert murmured, half to himself. "Patron – Minette has made its entrance. Almost all of the cast members are present and in place, save for the star; his part comes later." He nodded, to himself. "And our lines instruct to return to the station, for we have all that we need."

With a flick of his hand, Javert gestured for Gavroche to come. Into the rain they walked, walked back to the station.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Thank you so much to all of my reviewers! And my readers, too. Hopefully this chapter (Chapter 10!) satisfies all of you, and I apologize for the somewhat late update! Remember, please vote in the poll on my profile.

Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any of the characters mentioned from the Brick, nor am I a deceased Frenchman by the name of Victor Hugo. I own only the arrangement of the words upon this page.

When Gavroche and Inspector Javert got back to the station, order had finally settled upon the officers. Everyone was back at work, writing up reports on their desks and drawing out routes on various maps hanging on the walls. Officers were still running about, but only in that kind of purposeful running about. Everyone had something to do and somewhere to go.

Inspector Javert walked in first, Gavroche tailing behind him. One of the secretaries stopped them with a wave of his hand, beckoning them over.

"This is the one that caused the trouble?" the young man said, staring at Gavroche, who grinned back at him. Javert nodded, and then tried to push on by.

"No, no," the secretary said, stopping them. "Not yet! We have to file a report on this boy." With that, he reached into his desk to pull out a blank sheet of paper. "Name, please. And no lies."

Gavroche was about to answer, but Javert interrupted him. "I am handling this case, Cloutier. The boy is with me." He tried to move forward again, but once more, Cloutier prevented them from going.

"But you're an inspector!" Cloutier protested. "Shouldn't you be…inspecting, rather than filing a report for this boy?"

"I shall have you know, Cloutier, that being an inspector is not all dangerous heists and catching criminals," Javert said with a sigh. "And I really do have to go now, so, please let us by."

"Fine," Cloutier mumbled, and finally let them pass. Javert and Gavroche headed to the inspector's desk. Javert took off his coat and hung it on a peg from the wall, and then he placed his hat on the desk.

"I will eventually have to file a report for you, you know," Javert said to Gavroche. "But that can wait. We have far more important things to do at the moment, and really, the filing is all a formality." He took a piece of blank white paper and a pen from his desk drawer, and then sat in his chair. He began to sketch out a rough outline of the Gorbeau tenement, circling all of the entrances and windows. Possible escape routes.

"A repor'? Doesn't tha' mean I'm gonna go t'jail?" Gavroche asked, moving to lean against the wall. Javert looked up at him, then motioned to the chair on the other side of the desk. Gavroche went to sit in it, still regarding Javert with wary eyes. "I'd '_ave_ t'go to jail, then, wouldn't I?"

"Not necessarily, no," Javert replied, carefully sketching in a doorway. "It would depend on your offence. Now, if you would just explain to me exactly what you did, it would save us a lot of trouble."

"Don't see 'ow it'd 'elp _me,_" Gavroche mumbled. Javert looked up at him again, as if he was studying him intently. "I'd still be goin' t'jail, wouldn't I?"

"It is possible. I cannot rule that out as a chance," Javert said. "But if we know what you have done, perhaps arrangements better suited for you could occur. You are, after all, a child. Children occasionally get lighter sentences than adults."

Javert honestly could not believe he was saying this. Was he supporting this gamin, this child that had obviously committed a crime? Was he considering twisting the rules, bending the law, for this child's sake?

He supposed he was.

After all, if only…Oh, but that was many years ago. No one had been there for him then. No one had considered bending the law to help him.

Of course, he doubted that what Gavroche had done could even compare to his own deed. And he was quite fine where he was, where he had ended up. Being in the force was not all that bad. In any case, the force was not quite the same as La Force. Even though both were sort of a prison.

Javert knew, deep down, that he could never stop this, stop being a policeman. It compelled him, and he knew he gained a sort of joy in his work. But yet, he also felt like a captive, that it had pulled him in, like a maelstrom, and it would never let him go. But the conditions were much better than they could have been.

Just like La Force. Prisoners there were not treated as badly as prisoners at other facilities. They had basic amenities, and some even had private rooms. But each one was still a prisoner. The conditions do not change. A prison is a prison, regardless of the environment.

He let out a sigh, returning to the present, to his drawing. This would help the reinforcements when they teamed up with him to storm the Gorbeau tenement. Some had not seen the interior yet, and could become confused by the many rooms and haphazard architecture.

Javert suddenly stood, but he motioned for Gavroche to stay seated. He walked to one of the constables with the sketch in his hand.

"I will need reinforcements for an operation tonight at six, Tessier," Javert said.

"How many, and where?" Tessier asked, looking up from his own paperwork at Javert.

"I will need fourteen, and plus me, that shall be fifteen," Javert replied. "We will meet at the rue de la Barrière-des-Gobelins opposite the Gorbeau tenement, boulevard de l'Hôpital, numbers 50-52."

Tessier nodded knowingly. "Things always seem to happen there, don't they?" he asked rhetorically, fishing a paper out from the bottom of his stack of work. He began to energetically cross entire paragraphs out and scribble in new addendums. "All right. I will have your men there. Any particular time? You said six…"

"Five thirty. That should give us enough time, to allow for mistakes."

"Mistakes?"

"I have involved a civilian in the matter; it was absolutely necessary, or I would not have done it," Javert said. Oh, how he hoped Marius Pontmercy would remember his instructions!

"Understandable. Anything else I should brief them on before they reach you?"

Javert handed Tessier the map he had drawn. "Here is a sketch of the interior, for those that haven't covered a case there yet. And there will be some look-outs that we will have to take care of first."

"Fine, fine. They will meet you at the arranged spot at five thirty, Inspector," Tessier said, then pulled out another sheet and began to cross things out again, with perhaps more force than truly necessary.

Javert returned to Gavroche. "It's almost five o'clock," Javert said. "Let's talk about your part in the matter."

"Sure, 'spector!" Gavroche said. "Wha' do I do?"

"I am assuming that the look-outs will be Thénardier's girls. You mentioned that they were named Éponine and Azelma. I believe they will be the look-outs for the operation," Javert said, sitting back down. "Since you know them, I imagine I could enlist your services in 'bagging' them."

"Sure," Gavroche said. "Wha' else?"

"Slow down there. You have not let me finish." Javert put the pen back into his desk drawer and began straightening his papers upon his desk. "When we spot the girls, you will go out to them, convince them to come with you and leave their post. You will lead them straight to us."

"Go' i'," Gavroche ascertained.

Javert was a little surprised at his willingness to betray his own family members. After all, these were his sisters, not just two unrelated girls. But he supposed that in the kind of family Gavroche had, one forgot one's own siblings as easily as they forgot what they ate last night. Javert could relate, in a sense.

"Next, after we have taken the girls away, we will wait for Marius Pontmercy's signal. When it comes, we shall enter."

"Me too?"

"Yes. We may need you as leverage, to aid in the arrest," Javert said. "Do you understand?"

"Yep."

"Then, let's go. Don't want to be late for our entrance. I imagine the understudies would not be too good!"

With that, Javert grabbed his coat and hat and brushed out the door, Gavroche tailing behind.

It was going to be quite a night.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews! Like I have been saying, chapters may be irregularly posted up in the very near future…And my apologies for the late update!**

**A/N: I use some argot (slang) in this chapter. All of the argot I use, however, can be found in the Brick. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way, shape, or form; I also do not own the characters from said novel mentioned below. I own only my idea, the arrangement of the words upon this page, and several editions of the Brick. **

When, after some time spent walking, they arrived at the rue de la Barrière-des-Gobelins, night was just starting to fall. Inspector Javert motioned for the reinforcements to conceal themselves behind various trees on the road. This was a measure to ensure that they could easily spy upon the Gorbeau tenement without being spotted by the look-outs or any of the others involved. The inspector himself and Gavroche moved to hide behind a particularly large tree directly across from the worn-down tenement.

Gavroche opened his mouth to speak to Javert, but the man instantly covered it with his palm. He shook his head, forbidding any verbal communication. Then, he pointed across the street, to where Gavroche could discern the silhouette of one, very thin, girl. He nodded up at Javert, confirming that this girl was in fact one of the Thénardier children, and therefore, one of the two expected look-outs.

Javert motioned to two of his men, who stiffened to attention, awaiting further orders. Then, he nodded to Gavroche, who moved from the shadows to go speak with the girl.

He walked quickly to her, making sure to look at ease and calm. "Hey, 'Zelma!" he exclaimed, upon recognizing her to be the youngest Thénardier girl. She turned, on edge and anxious.

"Oh, that's you, 'vroche!" Azelma murmured, turning to face him. She clutched her hurt hand to her chest, a miserable look on her face.

This did not go unnoticed by Gavroche, with his keen, sharp eyes. "My, bu'…what's 'appened to ya?" he asked. "Ya 'urt?"

"It's nothing, nothing at all," she said, voice still soft and meek.

"Looks like more 'an a nothin'!" he said. "Anythin' I can do for ya, 'bout that?" he offered, looking intently at her. From behind, he could just barely hear some shifting of footsteps amongst the trees, and he remembered his mission.

"Hey, 'Zelma, where's 'Ponine?" he asked. "Aren't ya always 'gether?"

"Oh, she's doing something for the neighbor," Azelma replied. "She was _supposed _to be here with me and all, but I guess…"

"What's she doin'?" Gavroche asked, puzzlement written clear across his features. A neighbor? Well, then, that could only mean their informant…Marius Pontmercy. But what would Éponine have to do with such a young man?

"Oh, she didn't tell me much," Azelma said, crossing her thin arms across her chest, giving a small shiver in response to the cold. "Just…well, she said that he had asked her to do something. Something about finding a name."

"A name?" Gavroche asked. "Seems kinda strange…"

"That's what I told her," the girl replied, giving a little sniff. "But of course, _she _wouldn't listen to _me._"

"Strange," Gavroche remarked.

"Yeah, I know. _And _she's supposed to be helping me, and father!"

"'Elping? 'ow?" Gavroche asked, darting a glance behind himself, searching for the Inspector and his reinforcements. All he could see were a few shadows amongst the trees, but he figured that the officers were well-practiced at this kind of deception.

"I'm not supposed to tell anyone," Azelma said. "I don't think I could tell you. Father might get angry with me…" She nervously held her injured hand against her chest, looking around. "And that wouldn't be too good. Probably for either of us, if he manages to hunt you down."

While Azelma had been talking, Gavroche had been fulfilling his part of the promise to Inspector Javert. He quickly gave a thumbs-up signal behind his back at the two waiting officers, signaling that their involvement was necessary.

The two officers, Leduc and Caron, instantly moved to sneak up behind Azelma, their movements very quiet and quite undetectable. Each one of them grabbed one of her arms, restraining her movements.

"How about telling us what your sister, Éponine, is doing?" Caron asked. She shook her head furiously, trying to get out of the officers' vice-like grips. "We would very much like to know!"

"It will make it easier on you, too," Leduc added, holding tightly to her left arm. "Much easier."

"Not telling you _cognes_ anything!" Azelma nearly shouted. Caron threw his free hand over her mouth, preventing any more shouts from leaking out and warning the Thénardiers and Patron-Minette in the Gorbeau tenement.

"You will be telling us _everything_," a voice snarled from the shadows. Gavroche whipped around to look behind himself, searching amongst the trees. He knew that voice. By this point, he would recognize it from anywhere.

Inspector Javert stepped out from behind a tree, a grin upon his face. He nodded to Gavroche, then looked to the two officers restraining Azelma Thénardier.

"Take her away," he ordered Caron and Leduc. "We'll be fine from here." The two officers began to move away, Azelma still shooting them dark looks. However, before they could walk too far down the road, Javert stopped them.

"Wait, I have a question for the girl," he said, stepping nearer to the three. "Where is your sister? And I don't want any lies from you; I request naught but the truth."

"I don't know!" Azelma murmured, once Caron had removed his hand from her mouth. "She said she was looking for something, but…"

"Yes, yes, I heard. But you also said that she was supposed to be helping you. Where was she to be if she was helping you?" Javert asked, his voice low and menacing.

"Well, father told us that one of us was supposed to be here, at the barrière. The other was supposed to go to the rue du Petit-Banquier." Azelma paused, taking a deep breath. "I'm here, so I guess she's there, at the Petit-Banquier. But she didn't tell me anything. Just that she was looking for something."

"Fine, then," Javert muttered, half to himself and half to her. "Caron, Leduc, after you take her to the station, go down to the rue du Petit-Banquier and see if Éponine Thénardier is at her place. Or the other way, whichever is faster. Get back here as soon as you can."

The two officers nodded to him, then starting on their way again, towing Azelma in between them.

"Did I do it right?" Gavroche asked, looking up to Inspector Javert.

Javert nodded, just a small gesture. "Come on, then. The show's about to start."

They returned to their spot behind the tree, waiting for the signal, the one gunshot in the air, to be delivered by Marius Pontmercy.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reads and reviews, and my apologies for the late update! Just so you know, updates will not come often in the later half of July. And Marius finally gets his say in matters. Argot used can be found in the original text.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables or any characters recognizable from that novel. **

Marius Pontmercy was at his assigned position, armed and ready.

He was standing atop a chair, peering into the little hole in the wall between his flat and the flat of the Thénardiers. He could see them now, conversing with each other. And with the white-haired gentlemen, who seemed to be their benefactor of sorts.

It was six o'clock precisely. The white-haired man had just arrived, and he was now seated in a rickety old chair. His voice was low, yet strong, and Marius could just barely hear him. Thénardier, on the other hand, had a gravelly, oily sort of voice.

The man asked as to the condition of the youngest daughter, and such banter passed without Marius raising the alarm. He had been told to wait until the time was right, so that was what he intended to do.

But then, surprise hit Marius right in the face. A man started to come in through the door, his violet waistcoat old and ragged, and his pants in just the same condition. His face was covered in black, Marius noticed, as the stranger sat down on one of the beds.

The gentleman seemed to notice this as well. "Who is that man?" he asked, staring directly at the stranger.

Thénardier brushed him off, replying that he was nothing but a neighbor. Marius let out a small sigh of relief. Perhaps his face was just blackened like so from work.

Then, though, a sound came from the doorway. Marius looked in alarm, and he could just make out a second man walking in, his arms bare and his face blackened as well. The gentlemen spotted him as well, stiffening in alarm.

Thénardier distracted him with the mentioning of a painting for sale, pointing to it with excitement in his voice. He raised the candle to it, illuminating it for the white-haired gentleman to see. "Look at this! It's valuable, very valuable! But…money's short in coming these days, my benefactor. I'm willing, though it pains me, to part with it…"

The gentlemen directed his gaze to the back of the room as Thénardier continued to speak. Marius gave a jolt when he saw four apparitions now, three sitting and one standing. All had bare arms, no shoes, and blackened faces. One seemed to be asleep and seemed fairly old. The other two were younger, one with a beard and the other with long hair.

Thénardier noticed where the white-haired gentleman was looking. "Oh, they're just some friends that live over here. They work in the coal business, chimney specialists, you know," he said, explaining their blackened faces. Don't think on them, think on my painting! What would you give for it, my benefactor?"

The gentlemen looked to Thénardier, his back stiffening and his eyes growing hard. "I wouldn't give much for it at all…it's just some sign. Maybe three francs, if that."

"I'd go for five, my benefactor!" Thénardier said, not a care showing on his face. The gentlemen moved to stand as far from him as he could, pushing his back up against the wall. He gazed at him to his left, and the four "friends" to his right, nearest to the door.

"But, if you don't buy it," Thénardier continued, whining. "I won't have anything! My daughters, and my poor wife! There'd be nothing left for us to do, my benefactor, nothing at all!"

His attentions were on the gentleman, but his eyes were on the door. "There's nothing, nothing, nothing!" he continued. "I'd have to go throw myself into the pont d'Austerlitz! Oh, oh, oh!" he wailed. "But don't you recognize me?"

At that moment, three new men came in all at once. All were in blue shirts with black masks made out of cheap paper. The first was all bones, and he carried a cudgel on his person. The second was gargantuan, and he had a poleax. The third had very broad shoulders, was of a composition more than the first but less than the second, and he carried a key with him.

Thénardier grinned. "Everything together?" he asked of the skinny man.

"Yes, all's good."

"But…" Thénardier did a small head count. "We're missing one. Where's Montparnasse?"

"He stopped to talk with your _fée_."

"Which one?"

"The eldest. He should be here soon, I think."

"Good. There's a cab down?"

"Yes, all's ready."

"The rattletrap's hitched and set?"

"It's hitched."

"Two horses?"

"The best we could get."

"Waiting where I said?"

"Yes, like I said, all good."

"Good," Thénardier said, a smile upon his worn face.

The gentleman, though, was not good. He was in fact, looking rather pale. His gaze swept over everything in the flat, studying the faces of the men around him. He gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white.

Marius felt a surge of pride for this man. He seemed to have courage, and a fair amount of it, regardless of his situation.

But, silently, three of the "chimney specialists" assembled themselves around the doorway, each with a scrap of iron in their hands. The eldest stayed where he was, his eyes finally opening.

Adrenaline coursed like fire through Marius's veins. He stood to attention, the pistol held high in his right hand, towards the ceiling. The time would soon come for the shot, he knew.

Thénardier turned once more to the gentleman. "So, you really don't recognize me?" he asked. "At all?"

"No," the gentleman answered, looking him straight in the face. "Not at all, Jondrette." He called him by the name Marius and the gentleman knew him to be, but others knew better.

Suddenly, Thénardier moved closer to the gentleman.

"I'm not Fabantou," he shouted. "Nor am I Jondrette! I am Thénardier, Thénardier, Thénardier! Do you hear me? Thénardier! The innkeeper! Do you recognize me, now?"

"No."

But Marius had.

Thénardier.

The man responsible for saving his now-deceased father. His father. The baron Pontmercy. Marius had known to look for him, and look for him he had.

Thénardier.

This crook, this criminal, this thief! _This_ was his father's savior!

What irony! The man he had been told to thank could possibly kill the father of his love!

The pistol nearly fell out of his hand at this epiphany.


	13. Chapter 13read author's note

**A/N: Apologies for the late update. Any argot used may be found in the text. This will probably be the last update for a VERY long time, due to real life obligations. My sincere apologies for this, but real life must come first for now.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way, shape or form. I only own my ideas and the arrangement of the words upon this page.**

Thénardier had begun pacing up and down the little room, staying in front of the table. At once, he wrapped his thin, long-fingered hand around the candle stick, picking it up and throwing it down onto the mantelpiece. The light almost went out and the wax flew all across the wall.

He then turned to the gentleman, a strange sort of look in his eye. Marius nearly drew back in alarm, the glare was so threatening. Thénardier shook himself a bit, and then spoke.

"It's all done!" he cried. "We're done, done, done! You know me, regardless! I know you, I know it." He began pacing again, each round going faster and faster. "I've caught you, fair and square, monsieur the benefactor! You, the beggar not begging for alms, but giving them out! Guess you can't recognize me, but maybe this'll jog your memory enough."

He took a deep, heavy breath, and then continued with his frightening tirade. "Don't suppose it was you, and then…You took the girl, Fantine's, kid, back in 1823! The Lark, you took her from us! You had that yellow greatcoat, you did, and you had a package, filled with clothes!" He let out a little laugh. "Just like this morning, huh? Charitable, a threadbare philanthropist! Oh, suppose you don't recognize me, then. But I do. I could tell it was you, I knew it, the moment you walked on in here. It's not perfect pretty, now, is it? You acted all-so-generous, then, when you came in to our little inn in Montfermeil. And then you took our very livelihood! And that's just not enough, now, is it? Is it? You come back, now, and see us now! And you, the amazing philanthropist, the rogue, you come on back, bringing a too-big greatcoat and a few blankets! You…" He took another breath, slightly wheezing from his rant. "You're him, that dirty scoundrel of a child-snatcher!"

Thénardier began to yell, now, straight at the pale gentleman. "You're the cause of all our troubles. You took that girl of a wealthy family, oh, for obviously she was wealthy with all that money the mother gave, for only fifteen hundred francs! That's it! And you won, then, yes, I guess you won. Fair. But now, it's time for revenge, my way! I've got to laugh, now." And he did laugh, a fearsome, chilling sound. "I've got a full hand, a good one, today. Best in the house. And you've just lost the game. You've made your choice. Look how you fell into the trap, into my little game. You fell for my little letter, for poor Monsieur Fabantou."

Thénardier stopped, heaving from his shouting. He turned to look at the gentleman, as if expecting an answer. And he got one.

"I think you are quite mistaken; I've no idea what you're talking about. I am no millionaire, instead, much the opposite. I believe you have mixed me up with someone else, for I do not know you," the gentleman murmured.

Thénardier let out a groan. "You just can't see it! What trash this is! Still holding on to your make-believes and fairy tales…"

"Pardon, monsieur," the gentleman said, perfectly calm and polite. "But I daresay, I can see that you are a crook."

At that instant, Madame Thénardier rose up from the bed, face aflame. Thénardier held on tight to his chair, as if to break it. "Don't move," he growled to his wife. Then he looked again at the gentleman.

"Sure, you rich bourgeois guy, you call all of us crooks," he said. "I've got no food; I haven't eaten for three days. If that makes me a crook, then I guess it does. You, with your fancy clothes and fine foods that cost more than I've ever held in my hand. You, with your newspaper-thermometers. Fine, then, I'm a crook. But I'm also a true citizen, for I fought! I should be decorated; I was a veteran! I was at Waterloo, did you know? And I saved someone, did you hear?"

At this, Marius gave a little gasp. His father…had been saved by this man, no doubts about it now.

Thénardier continued on. "It was a count, I guess. Something like that. And he told me his name, too! But he was so soft-speaking, you know, that all I caught was his thanks! Rather a name than thanks, for thanks does not give you cash. A name, now, that can. I need money, that's it. I need money, and a lot of it. That's the truth, and by God, I'll get it."

Thénardier turned head-on to the gentleman again. "Any last words, before we get to work?" The gentleman did not respond.

Out in the hall, everyone could hear a sharp bark of laughter. It was the man with the ax, appearing now in the doorway.

"Why'd you take your mask off?" Thénardier asked gruffly.

"I wanted to laugh," the man replied. Thénardier's back was now turned away from the gentleman.

The gentleman took his action. At that moment, he kicked the chair away from himself and pushed the table away. He leaped with nimbleness to the window and opened it. He hopped onto the sill, stepping over. He was even halfway outside before the three "chimney specialists" hauled him back in. The other men walked in, standing menacingly by the gentleman.

Amongst them, Marius could just recognize Panchaud, or Bigrenaille. This one raised his club up to the gentleman's head, just about to strike.

Marius took a deep breath, offering a pray up. "Father, oh, please forgive me," he thought silently.

He raised his finger against the trigger of the pistol.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Any argot used is in the original text. Many apologies for the late update.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables in any way, shape, or form. I own only my ideas and the arrangement of the words upon this page. **

At that moment, Thénardier interrupted Bigrenaille's actions. "Don't hurt him!" he cried, right when Marius was about to fire his shot.

He repeated his words, gazing straight at the men surrounding the white-haired gentleman. Marius lowered the pistol, watching intently through the little hole in the wall. He decided that there was nothing wrong at all with waiting a few more moments. Perhaps something, someone, could intervene. That could save him from making the choice: save his love's father, or save the man who had saved his father?

The gentleman had managed to disarm and incapacitate most of the thugs in the room with his before-hidden strength. He was now sitting on the bed nearest to the window, being held there by the few remaining men. Madame Thénardier had a firm, steady grip upon his bright white hair.

Her husband turned to her. "Stay out of this, will you; you'll rip that shawl of yours," he said. She obeyed him, stepping away from the gentleman with a growl.

Thénardier then looked at his men. "Search him," he ordered. The gentleman did not offer any resistance as they began, letting them pat him down. They discovered, though, that he had nothing on him but a purse with nothing but six francs in it and a white handkerchief, which Thénardier took for his own.

"No wallet!" he exclaimed, to which one of the "chimney specialists" replied: "No watch, too."

Thénardier then turned to his men. "Tie him down, will you, to the bed." They followed his order, tying the gentleman to the foot of the bed, his arms behind his back. Then, he walked around to the gentleman, his mouth set in a wry smile. "Let me talk to him, all right?"

The men obeyed, stepping back to the door.

"You're in the wrong, for trying to escape like that," Thénardier said. "You could've hurt yourself. But now, don't worry, we're going to have a little chat. First, though, I must tell you something that quite surprises me: you haven't said even a little protest. That's kind of strange, you know. You ought to have cried 'thief', and that would've been fine. It's expected. And, you know, if you had, then we wouldn't have tied you up like this, we wouldn't have touched you a bit. Not a bit. And it's kind of strange. You know, if you had called out, the police would've come. And then, there comes the law. Seems to me, at least, like you don't want to meet the police this fine evening. I reckon you're hiding something, then. Maybe we've got a common thing. An understanding." He paused, gazing harshly at the gentleman. He seemed oddly refined to Marius, at least for being a soldier-turned-thief.

The gentleman did not reply. He simply sat there, tied up on the bed. His face was blank and well-composed; he was the master of his own emotions.

Thénardier moved to the stove, suddenly removing the screen. From there, the gentleman and Marius both could see a white-hot chisel, hot within the stove. Thénardier then walked back over to the gentleman, sitting down very close to him.

"See, I reckon we could come to an understanding," he continued. "I apologize for getting angry there; I just got so carried away. I wanted money, and here you were, a millionaire! But I suppose I forget to think about your expenses. Everyone has expenses, and surely even you do as well. And I'm not going to ruin you, for I'm just not that kind of person. So, I've decided to compromise with you. How does giving me two hundred thousand francs sound?" He looked to the gentleman, who did not reply. "I think that's a fair amount for you. And once you've given it to me, you can go on free. We won't harm you at all if you comply. And here's what else: I ask for one thing only. Write down what I tell you to. And I do know you can write, so no excuses or something."

He found an inkwell, pen, and a sheet of paper in one of the drawers. He did not close the drawer, and Marius could just see the flash of a knife within it. He placed the sheet of paper on the table in front of the gentleman.

"Write as I tell you," he commanded.

"Well," the gentleman said, finally speaking at last. "How can I write if my hands are tied?"

"You're right!" Thénardier exclaimed. "Untie his hands," he ordered one of the men. Bigrenaille moved forward, untying his right hand. Thénardier dipped the pen in ink and handed it to the gentleman.

"Write as I tell you," he repeated. "You won't go free until you do, I warn you. Now, I will dictate."

The gentleman picked up the pen.

"My daughter," Thénardier began. Then he paused, looking to the gentleman. "Scratch that, put 'my dear daughter'".

The gentleman did as was commanded of him, and continued to write as Thénardier dictated.

Marius was surprised to find that the letter seemed to be directed at his love, the daughter of the gentleman, whom Thénardier called "The Lark". This was interesting information. The gentleman signed the letter, saying his name aloud. It was "Urbain Fabre", which Thénardier accepted without a qualm. Monsieur Fabre wrote out the address, then handed it off to Madame Thénardier and the man with the ax to deliver as Thénardier requested.

* * *

Outside, on the rue de la Barrière-des-Gobelins, Javert and his men (minus Caron and Leduc) lay in wait, concealed behind the trees.

Gavroche turned to look at Javert, his eyes wide with anticipation. "When 'ill i'all start?" he asked, his voice a soft whisper.

Javert looked sharply down at him. He raised a finger to his lips in warning, for if the men in the flat heard anything at all, they would likely run. He then bent down close to Gavroche's ear. "Soon enough, as soon as Marius Pontmercy orders it to begin," he murmured. He then straightened back up to his full height, staring intently up to the flat.

He was ready. But it seemed as if Marius was not, for he had not given the signal yet.

The officers were ready as well, scattered as they were amongst the trees.


End file.
